Last Laugh
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Regina adds a little twist to the curse to ensure that she's the only Storybrooker with a love life. Charmbelle, Marygold. Rated M, but not really.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: She Who Laughs First

Her Majesty Queen Regina of the Enchanted Forest and assorted lesser holdings was—for the moment—a merry old soul, so she called for her pipe and she called for her bowl and she called for her fiddlers three, and she even allowed her Magic Mirror to get in on the celebration. And the reason for her extraordinary merriment, so unlike her usual out-of-my-way-before-I-stomp-on-you demeanor? After more than fifteen months, she had finally, finally finished The Plan.

After all that intensive labor, casting the curse itself would be easy. She'd had no idea, when she'd so hungrily snapped her jaws around the idea that Rumplestiltskin had dangled before her (yes, yes, she knew he was using her, but so what? She'd have the last laugh when her curse wiped away his memory along with everyone else's), how _detailed_ the damn thing would be. She figured she'd just toss a few ingredients (eye of newt, toe of frog, that sort of thing) into a cauldron and boom! Boiled curse, coming right up. But no, oh no no no, Rumplestiltskin had clicked his tongue and shaken his finger at her: revenge is never easy, and this is the curse to top all curses, yadda yadda yadda, and before she could even think about cauldrons, she had to plan every damn detail of the life to come in the new world. Everyone she wanted to invite to the party had to have a new identity, from the name—Rumple made her spend entire days selecting names for the principal characters in her little play—to the haircut. She worked out what they'd wear, how they earned their living, what they'd eat for Sunday brunch—you name it, she planned it. And the more she discovered she had to plan, the shorter her invitation list got, because who wants to work so hard on behalf of strangers?

And just when she had identities for all three hundred of her guests (okay, she fudged a little and handed over two-thirds of the work to Daddy and the Mirror), just when she thought she was through, Rumplestiltskin—now just a hop and a skip short of Crazy Town, after more than a year in Charming's prison (you talk about evil! After seeing Charming's theory of criminal rehabilitation put into practice, Regina would have gladly signed him up as sergeant of the Royal Guard)—shook his finger and tsk'ed at her again. "Dearie, dearie, dear, you're only halfway there. Now you have an entire village to plan: roads, bridges, shops, schools, homes, etcetera, etcetera. Back to work. Off with you now!" (For a second there, she thought he'd said, "Off with your head.")

She was tired and bored and ready to throw in the proverbial towel at this point. "Ah hell with it; let all these people build their own damn village."

"Nuh uh uh! To do that would require progress, wouldn't it? And if any one of these people experiences the slightest change in his day-to-day routine, he's going to suspect something, isn't he? He's going to start to wonder why no one else changes: gets older, gets wiser, leaves town, dies. When people wonder, they ask questions: when they ask questions, they start to think for themselves. They wake up, dearie! No, no, you must provide everything for them, right down to the 'his and hers' towels they hang in their bathrooms."

"This will take forever!" she whined and winced.

"All right then, perhaps I can take some of the work off your hands."

"What's your price?" For she wasn't about to let him pull the wool over her eyes again.

"I want to be rich." He had this all thought out; being much older and more experienced and better traveled than she, he knew that in most lands, might may be right, but money is the ultimate power, and people could be controlled by it more easily, less messily than by brute strength. But Rumple also knew that magic requires specificity, and he must fill in all the colors himself, leaving no room for Regina's creativity, else he'd end up miserable in this new land. "I want to be the richest person in town, with so much money that if I work for a living, it will be simply for the entertainment of it, not for need."

"But I'm going to be the ruler in this new land. I should have the most money."

"You can be the second-richest. If you want my help—"

"All right, you're the richest." She'd find a way to get back at him, anyway.

"And I want financial security. I want to own the entire village—except for your house, of course."

Oh, they'd fought a good two weeks over that point, until finally, frazzled, she gave in. Once again, she figured, being the ruler, she would have power over him and could simply tax him into poverty.

"One last thing. I want the comfort of a supportive, attentive, obedient wife, sweet-natured and demure, in her twenties or early thirties. Oh, and, uh, I'm a leg man." She swore she detected a blush beneath his scales. "And to encourage her attentiveness, make me good looking and well dressed."

"Fine, good looks, nice clothes, a leggy wife." She thrust a stack of parchments at him, along with a box of quills and a bag of bottles of ink. "I'll be back in one week. It had better be ready to roll out then." She figured he wouldn't make her deadline, and then she could dock him on some of his demands, but the completed parchments were waiting when she returned seven days later. Their deal, then, was struck, and honestly, she didn't mind acceding to his demands; she had the final say over this curse anyway.

So as she celebrated the completion of her labors and the coming of the curse, Regina drank and ate and danced and laughed in her glass towers. And that night, as she took pleasure in the arms of her Huntsman (oh you better believe he'd be coming to the new world with her!), fireworks went off in her brain as well as her body, and she then had the last line for her curse: the perfect way to get back at everybody who had crossed her!

In this new village, this new life under her thumb, there would be fireworks for no one except herself and the Huntsman. It was even more perfect because she could always blame Rumplestiltskin for it ("You _said_ no lives could change—well, lovemaking leads to love and babies, so in Storybrooke no one except me will ever make love!").

In the final moments before she cast the curse, Regina had one more brain orgasm. . . .

* * *

As the morning sun casts its gentle rays upon his manly bed (firm mattress, brown bedding), David Nolan stretches and smiles and slips into his carpet slippers. Before exiting his bedroom, he cinches the belt of his terrycloth robe and makes certain it's completely closed, for, should he run into the missus on his way to the bathroom, he wouldn't want to shock her. After all, she's a lady and deserving of a gentleman's respect.

After his morning ablutions, he returns to his bedroom to dress for the workday: neatly pressed jeans and equally pressed t-shirt, for the wife takes pride in her husband's appearance as well as her own. When in public, he represents her: other wives will judge her housekeeping by his appearance. Now ready for the day, he patters into the kitchen, where coffee and bacon greet his nose and his wife greets his cheek with a good-morning kiss. "And how are you this fine day, sweetheart?" he asks.

"Hunky-dory, darling. And you?" She drops two slices of whole wheat into the toaster before smiling over her shoulder at him.

"Splendid, and it appears the weather will be, too. I believe I'll bicycle to work this morning." As he pours himself a cup of joe, he pats his tummy. "I seem to have added a few pounds since we married—too many second helpings of your wonderful cooking."

Expertly she catches the toast as it pops up, cuts the slices diagonally down the middle and lays them on his plate at the 3:00 position. At the 6:00 position she has two sunny-side-ups waiting, and at the 9:00, three strips of crisp bacon. One teaspoon of half-and-half for his coffee and he's all set.

She sits across from him at their Formica table and sips her Earl Grey as he butters his toast. "Do you have any new animals at the shelter?"

"No, the same as yesterday." Never mind the fact that technically, there was no yesterday, this being the first day of Storybrooke's existence. But the false memories that the curse delivers to all the residents, excepting Regina, lead everyone to think they'd lived here for ages.

"And were there any adoptions yesterday?"

"No, a few lookie-loos, but no adoptions." He crunches his toast (always work clockwise down the plate, his sense of etiquette tells him). "Do you have anything special planned for today, sweet?"

"I'll deliver books to the hospital patients at 9:00, then story time is at 10:00, and this afternoon the third-grade is coming for a tour."

"Sounds like a full day," he says, admiring his eggs.

Never mind the fact that his memory tells him they've asked each other these same questions and given the same answers every morning at precisely 8:10; his memory also tells him that these questions have to be asked and these answers have to be given: it's what married people do, just as, at promptly 8:15, he will rise, pat his mouth with a napkin, rinse his dishes in the sink, set them in the dishwasher (a considerate husband helps with the washing up), kiss his wife's cheek, lift his jacket from the hook at the back door, and dash out to his waiting bicycle; and at 6:09, as it's payday, he will deposit his check in the bank, call his wife to ask if she needs him to pick up anything ("No, thank you, darling," she'll answer, because they never need anything. They have it all), and then pedal straight home.

What a perfect life. A textbook perfect life.

As he mounts his Schwinn, he waves farewell to his wifey, who waves from the back door. "Have a nice day, Belle."

As she always does (for she knows what wives are supposed to do), she blows him an air kiss. "Have a nice day, David."

* * *

At 8:19, a steady thump-clump-thump-clump on the porch informs her that her husband has returned home, not one minute earlier or later than he did last night, the night before, or the night before (or so the curse has her believing). The front door of the pink mansion squeaks open—she must remember to add "oil the door" to his honey-do list—and his cane enters, with him a step behind. She rises from the 20-seat Ethan Allen dining room table (built for elegant dinner parties that they never have), abandons the stack of essays that she's grading and comes around, the heels of her sensible flats clacking against the parquet, which she waxes every Saturday morning while her husband is at work. It never occurs to her to wonder why, since they never have guests.

"Good evening, honey," she says, straightening the sweater of her twinset. She takes his briefcase and sets it neatly on the dining table.

"Good evening, sweetie," he answers, and he sniffs. "Mmm, yankee pot roast" (the same as last night and the night before). "What's the occasion?"

"The occasion is us," she chirps. "It's a wife's duty and privilege to make her hubby happy."

"As it's a husband's duty and privilege to greet his wife properly when he comes home." He slips an arm about her shoulders—never the waist; that would be too personal—and leans in; she raises her face and he kisses her cheek.

"My!" she exclaims, blushing and ducking her head. "It's true, what the other wives say. I really am the most fortunate of women."

He wags a warning finger. "Now, now, pet, what have I said about listening to gossip? But I'll make an exception this once, considering it was nice gossip."

"Yes, dear." She hangs her head but she smiles at his admonition. "Are you hungry?"

"For your pot roast? Always."

"I'll have it on the table in a jiff." She scampers off to their all-electric kitchen.

"And I shall be finishing up a little paperwork," he calls after her before picking up his briefcase and making his way to his study. "Call me when it's ready."

After dinner, he returns to his study and she washes the dishes (so lucky: he bought her a dishwasher for her birthday. She can't remember which birthday. . . or just how old she is. . . ). At 10:00 the grandfather clock chimes gently—no harsh sounds in this house—and they emerge from their respective retreats—he the library, she the tv room—take each other's hand and climb the stairs. As he opens his bedroom door, he loosens his tie and unbuttons his jacket (bedtime is the _only_ time he unbuttons the jacket). She pats her hair into place, then sets a hand on his chest for balance and rises on tiptoe to accept his kiss on her forehead. "Sleep tight; don't let the bedbugs bite," she sings.

"Sweet dreams, Mary Margaret."

"Sweet dreams, Mr. Gold." And they open the doors to their respective bedrooms.

It never occurs to her that she's the only wife in Storybrooke who doesn't know her husband's first name.

* * *

Warm and glowing from her hot bubble bath—ooh, she adores the clean conveniences of this world!—Regina slips into her silk pajamas, brushes her teeth and patters barefoot (why not: the mayor's mansion has wall-to-wall Berber carpeting and central heat) to her extra-soft bed (queen size, of course). She plumps her pillows, snuggles under the Laura Ashley sheets, reaches for the remote and snaps her color tv on. So perfect, so perfect—

Except for this. Some hideous screeching thing on her television assaults her ears and eyes. It takes her a moment to realize this noise is supposed to be music and those orange-haired creatures in safety-pin earrings are supposed to be minstrels. "Oh no, no, no, this will never do!" she exclaims. If Rumplestiltskin gets a load of these leather-clad rejects from outer space, he'll start thinking he fits in here, and then he'll be _happy_. With a disgusted whisk of her hand, she banishes MTV from Storybrooke's cable offerings.

She changes channels and finds something much more to her liking: a silver-haired lord of the manor sips bourbon while women in designer gowns and dripping diamonds pause on winding staircases to be admired. Yes, she likes this program very much, especially the young men prancing around in unbuttoned tuxedos. The queen squees when the brilliant raven-haired beauty seizes the bleached blonde by her dark roots and tosses her into a swimming pool. Ah, that Alexis Carrington Colby Dexter Whatever! The blood in her veins must be blue as ink, and the heart in her alabaster breast must be black as pitch.

And then some of the characters start groping each other. . .and their designer clothes are shucked off. . .Regina is intrigued. . . Regina is enticed . . . until Regina remembers the no-lovemaking-for-anyone-but-Regina clause in the curse; then Regina is incensed. Her hand slices the air once again, and her magic slices the airwaves. When she flips through the channels again, she finds the Weather Channel on every one.

She wants her enemies to suffer, not drool over handsome, half-dressed men and wet cat-fighting women who might provoke memories of dilated pupils and tingling naughty parts.

And in the morning, when she turns on her radio and finds that the most popular song of the year is "Every Breath You Take," she decides more changes must be made, before Storybrooke begins to notice that their beloved mayor is watching every move they make. When the next singer purrs, "I need sexual healing" she blocks off all the FM radio stations (she leaves the AM stations with their farm reports). In 2002, after bringing a baby into her world, Regina will allow the Disney Channel and Radio Disney into Storybrooke, but that's it: she's going to keep her town clean: no tongue prints on the mirrors.

* * *

And so, for twenty-eight years (but in their minds, just a few fuzzy days, or maybe weeks, or could it be months, but certainly not years) the Nolans and the Golds enjoy their triangle toast and pot roast, their bicycles and briefcases, their nice gossip, their Weather Channel and their forehead kisses. They have comfortable lives and they tell each other they are content, though Belle does get a little vaguely depressed when she reads _Fear of Flying_ and David is disturbed when a German shepherd attaches itself to the back of St. Bernard and thrashes about in some sort of a fevered fit, and when Mary Margaret watches eggs hatch in birds' nests she wonders where baby birds come from, and Mr. Gold takes an awfully long time completing his paint-by-numbers _Birth of Venus_.

And then with two words the world changes.

"Now, what's the name?"

_"Swan. Emma Swan."_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: He Who Laughs Last

Gold walks into the inn to collect rent; Rumplestiltskin stumbles out, a wad of cash in his fist. On the lawn he stares at the cash: Gold, exactly as he's done every first day of every month for as long as he can remember—no, wait, he doesn't have to be vague any more; he _knows_ now: it's been twenty-eight years —Gold, exactly as he's done every first day of every month for twenty-eight years, and exactly as any sober, responsible businessman should, starts for the bank to make his deposits.

Then Rumplestiltskin wakes up. With a delighted giggle, he stands on Granny's lawn with his arms spread wide as he admires this wonderful world of street lamps and stop signs and traffic and neon and music and money—and, somewhere out there, Baelfire. He wants to crow: "I'm Rumplestiltskin, damn it!"

He's Gold and he owns this town and people tremble in his wake and obey him when he snarls (and cuss him behind his back). He's Rumplestiltskin and he has Plans, Big Plans, Huge Plans, and soon he'll have magic again, but for now, it's time for Step 2 in the Master Plan: preparing Emma for her debut as savior. He steps out onto the sidewalk of his town and does a little jig because his ankle doesn't hurt a bit. He tosses the cane like so much litter into a trash can.

He wonders if there are any visible signs of his awakening. He looks around for a reflective surface and grabs the nearest one, the side mirror of Nolan's truck, parked curbside in front of the animal shelter. He draws the mirror out and peers at himself, the hair, the skin, the eyes: he signs with relief because he still looks like Gold. He draws his lips back to inspect his teeth, then when Dopey brushes by and gives him a strange look, he pretends he has something stuck in his teeth. Dopey loses interest and moves along.

But Rumple-Gold does not lose interest. Returning his gaze to the truck mirror, he slides a hand, Napoleon style, under his Armani jacket, cocks his head and smiles Rumplestiltskin's flirty smile. Whatever complaints he may harbor against her, he has to admit Regina came through admirably in fulfilling her end of the bargain: he's one damn good-looking and well-dressed fella, yes indeed. If Gold weren't such a scary bastard, he'd have a posse of fangirls trailing after him on his rent collections.

Yup, Regina delivered. He's got money, he's got clothes (well, this checked shirt has got to go; it looks like it was made from the scraps of a pizza parlor tablecloth), he's got looks (he smiles at himself again just to admire the whiteness of his teeth), he's got a supportive, attentive, obedient and leggy—

Oh crap.

He's got Charming's wife.

He gallops back to the trash can to retrieve that cane. He's gonna need it when the _Tiger Beat_ Cover Boy wakes up.

Swallowing repeatedly, he shrinks into his Armani and limps off to the bank. He's due home in fifteen minutes. Home. To his pink house. To his leggy wife. Whom he has kissed twice a day (forehead or cheek only!) every day for twenty-eight years. Whom he shares with a sword-swishing prince who's single-handedly conquered not one but two dragons. And who could wrestle a crocodile without breaking a sweat.

Fifteen minutes later, he can't delay any longer. Mary Margaret will worry about her predictable husband, and if Mary Margaret worries about her predictable husband, there's going to be talk all over town. Rumple-Gold stands on the lawn, staring up at his pink house. The scariest man in town is too scared to face his supportive, attentive, obedient, leggy wife.

So she faces him. In the open doorway she calls, "What are you doing out there?"

Caught, he climbs the stairs and tries to play his part, but he can't look her in the eye or call her by the curse-scripted endearments. "Good evening, Snow."

A small frown creases her flawless forehead. "What did you say, darling?"

"Oh, ah, I said, 'Good evening. Looks like snow.'" He points helplessly at the clouds.

"But it's August." She gives her head a firm shake. "But as you wish, my husband." She sets her hand on his chest and leans in to kiss his cheek.

Queen Snow White the bigamist wants to kiss her husband the Dark One. If her husband Prince Charming found out, blood would be shed—Rumplestiltskin's. The Dark One recoils, blocking the kiss with his hand. "Cold sore!" he exclaims, and he barrels into the pink house. "I have some paperwork!" He rushes into his study and shuts the door, leaning against it and panting, his head spinning.

"Pot roast tonight," she sings.

Rumplestiltskin hates pot roast. He climbs out the window and gallops across his manicured lawn and back into the picturesque village that he designed. He attracts funny stares from a dwarf, a werewolf and Frankenstein as he runs back toward his shop. His things, he must surround himself with his things from the old world and this one (Robin Hood's bow, the Golden Fleece, Hercules' loin cloth—whatever possessed Rumplestiltskin to buy another man's used underwear?). Between the protective walls of his things, he can relax and think this problem out.

As he rushes down Sycamore towards Main, his heart pounds frantically: somehow he has to keep the savior on track toward breaking the curse, yet at the same time avoid becoming the target of her parents, who are sure to blame him once they awaken, even though—and this is a first—it's not his fault this time.

Not his fault. The realization draws him up short—in the middle of Sycamore, nearly causing a Ford Escort driven by the Headless Horseman to collide with a Mini Cooper driven by Polyphemus the Cyclops (ewww, just imagine that guy's driver license photo). He rubs his chin in deep thought as the drivers curse him (what does he care? Hell, he's already cursed: he's married to Prince Charming's wife). Not his fault—then it's Regina's. His lips curl back and he reverses course, weaving his way back between the Escort and the Cooper. Regina! She caused this: she'll fix it or his name isn't Rumplestiltskin.

Oh. Yeah. Here, it isn't. Can't be until the savior wakes everyone else. If he tips his hand too soon, Regina will do something drastic to Emma, like turning her into a meter maid (well, that's about the extent of a mayor's magic). Rumplestiltskin stands leg-locked on the sidewalk, rubbing his chin and trying to figure this out.

Divorce, that's what he's got to do: divorce Snow immediately and pray that when she and Charming awaken from the curse they'll be so ecstatic in their reunion that they don't notice there's an imp-eating dragon under the library.

Except. . . a divorce would piss off Snow, and a pissed-off Snow White set loose on Storybrooke would be just a shade less horrific than Godzilla set loose on Tokyo. Not to mention the fact that no Storybrooker has ever divorced. Nobody's even considered it: Storybrooke marriages are free of passion, and therefore free of conflict. Storybrooke is the _Stepford_ _Wives_ meets Ken and Barbie.

So he stands on the sidewalk rubbing his chin raw and asking himself, because he's rusty: what would Rumplestiltskin do?

A giggle answers him.

He brushes it away. No crazy giggles, no madcap cavorting, no flamboyant gestures and absolutely, positively no leather pants allowed in this world until the savior's done her job. He glances down at his Armani slacks and sighs in longing. But he looked so Rod Stewart in those leather pants.

Another giggle answers him. And then he realizes he's not the giggler. He follows the sound with his eyes, then with his feet, until he's standing before a two-story house with a very tall set of stairs (another of Regina's little jokes: fill the town with stairs and make the imp limp). Teetering precariously on a rickety ladder, a young woman is stringing Christmas lights along the house's cornice. He cocks his head and watches a moment to make certain: yes, she's hanging them, not taking them down. Snow should talk this woman, remind her it's August.

The woman is the source of the giggles. His eyes move from her sneaker-clad feet to her denim-clad legs to her fanny, wiggling to maintain her balance on the ladder. She finishes hammering in a nail and sets the hammer down, then clasps her hands. "Perfect!" She leans back to admire her work. . . .

"Belle!" he yelps. "You're real! You're alive!"

She twists to peer down at him. "Huh?" And then she loses her balance and tumbles and he dashes to and fro to position himself under her for the catch like a shortstop after a fly ball, and she lands in his arms, and under her weight he lands on his butt in the grass.

"Oh! I'm sorry." She's sitting on his chest, staring down at him as he sucks for breath and gestures for her to get up. "All you all right?" She turns and slides down his body until she's straddling him, and she strokes his cheek. "Mister? Are you all right?"

He still can't catch his breath. She slaps him and he begins to breathe again, and he's in love all over again. "Belle," he moans, grasping her hips. His loin-cloth region has swollen and grown hot. Maybe he's coming down with something.

"I'm sorry; you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name but I don't know yours." She wiggles a little, settling herself snugly over his hips. "You look quite flushed."

"Mouth to mouth," he gasps. "I need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

"Oh, of course." She leans down, her hands trailing up his chest to his face, and sinking them into his hair she bends into him and presses her lips to his. After a moment she pulls back. "Did it work?"

His loin-cloth area's on fire now; he wonders if she has a garden hose he can use. "Almost." He pulls her back down and runs his tongue along her too-soft lips until she opens her mouth and her own tongue stirs to meet his. "Belle," he groans when, after several heated minutes, she withdraws. "Oh yeah, it worked. But maybe once more, to make sure?"

"Always glad to do my civic duty." She stretches her body out atop his and kisses him deeply, repeatedly, stirring in him more than just fond memories. In fact, she gets quite a rise out of him. When her lips are swollen and her pupils enlarged, she clambers to her feet, rubbing her hands nervously up and down her hips, up and down, up and down. . . with a groan he tears his eyes away from her hips.

"Are you okay now? Should I call a doctor?"

He shakes his head slowly but can't speak because he's just discovered that the middle button on her blouse has popped off.

She stretches out her hand and he automatically takes it. She hauls back, pulling him to his feet. He squirms in his trousers: maybe those leather pants are a bad idea after all. He smiles weakly. Of course she doesn't remember him yet. But every inch of him remembers her. Every. . . rapidly expanding. . . inch.

"Well, if you're sure you're all right." She gestures toward her front door. "Would you like to come in and rest a while? Have some lemonade?"

Belle Nolan, Charming's wife, is inviting him in. He can feel that bull's eye being slapped onto his back even now. He grins nastily. "Yes, I'd like that."

* * *

So he can't unmarry Snow and he can't break up the Nolans, but in typical Rumple style he can position everyone so that when they do wake up, they'll all be where they should be.

He prompts Mary Margaret to volunteer at the animal shelter on weekends.

He joins Belle's Jane Austen Book Club.

On New Year's Eve just as Red reaches "three, two" in the countdown, he throws the fuse on the lights and pushes Snow into Charming's arms and grabs Belle by the hips. By the time Leroy arrives with his tool box and gets the lights back on, various parts of Belle and Rumple are swollen. Dumb ass Charming, however, merely kissed a cheek—Rumple even doubts if it was Snow's—and spent the rest of lights-out chewing gum.

On Valentine's Day Rumple rifles through his back room to find Cupid's bow, then he climbs into the oak tree on the Nolans' lawn and waits for Belle to come out so he can shoot her. When she comes onto her porch and bends down to pick up the newspaper, he has the perfect target: he aims his arrow at that sweet fanny, now clad in a red mini-skirt and black tights. . . a very mini mini-skirt. . . .And that swelling in his nether regions pops up again and he wiggles to make it go away, and he falls out of the tree. Which proves not to be a total loss, for then she runs to his side to administer mouth-to-mouth again.

On the Fourth of July, as he and Snow sit on a blanket in the park with all the other Storybrookers, he studies the fireworks exploding above his head and he can't take it any more: he needs to shoot off a few bottle rockets of his own. So the next morning, while Belle's distracted at the circulation desk, he sneaks into her office. He pulls off the dust jackets on the club copies of _Persuasion_ and tapes them onto copies of the _Kama Sutra_. (He had to buy them online; the library doesn't have a single book in the 613.96s.) Then he grins evilly when the perplexed book club members assemble at the next meeting and Ruby begins the discussion with, "I expected it to be a novel, but instead it seems to be an instruction guide on ways to persuade people. Some very interesting ways to persuade people."

"Dale Carnegie's got nothing on Jane," Rumple smirks.

Over the course of the next week, he spies Belle studying the illustrations in the _Kama Sutra_, sometimes moving her hands and head this way and that to test the logistics of the instructions. She sits in the park after work, the book in her lap. One evening Snow, out walking a shelter dog, joins Belle on the park bench and, compliments of an electronic bug he planted in Belle's tote bag, Rumple listens to them talk about the book.

"Have you ever tried any of these exercises?" Belle asks. "I mean, it looks like a pretty thorough workout."

Snow peers over Belle's shoulder at one of the illustrations. "I am getting kind of bored with Pilates. But all of these pictures are for partner exercises. Mr. Gold isn't much for strenuous exercise: he has a bad ankle, you know. Do you think David would try any of these with you?"

"Oh!" The tone in Belle's voice reveals that she's never entertained the notion. "He _is _ athletic." She points to a picture. "He could do that." She flips the page. "And that. But I'm not sure he'd want to."

"Not even with you?"

"Not unless pork chops were involved." They look at more illustrations in silence, until Belle volunteers, "I tried that by myself last night."

"Really? Did you get a good workout?"

Belle grins—is that the beginnings of an _evil_ grin? Rumple nearly drops his binoculars. "I sure did."

Snow brightens. "Hey, would you set aside a copy of that book for me? I'll come by the library in the morning."

"Of course."

"And a copy for Emma. She's been so stressed lately. You know, I bet if she and Regina were to do this workout routine together, the tension between them would dissipate."

Belle's voice drops. "Can I tell you something, Mary Margaret? When I look at these illustrations, I get the urge to try these exercises with someone, but not David."

"Who, then?"

Belle lowers her head. "With Mr. Gold. Do you hate me?"

Mary Margaret slides an arm around Belle's shoulders. "Oh no, honey. It's just what I'd expect from you. You're so kind; it makes sense that you'd want to help a man with a disability. Why don't you and David come over for lunch on Saturday? We can work the conversation around to fitness programs, and then I'll suggest to Mr. Gold that you'd be happy to work with him. I'm sure these exercises would do his bad ankle a world of good."

Belle gives Mary Margaret a hug. "Thank you, Mary! That sounds perfect. And you're such a terrific athlete yourself, perhaps you and David would like to work out together. I'm sure you could keep up with him."

Rumplestiltskin drops his binoculars and falls out of his tree. Unfortunately he's too far away for Belle to hear him and come running to resuscitate him.

On Saturday morning he's frantic. The savior is still weeks, perhaps months, from believing and breaking the curse, yet Belle is only hours away from his arms. If they go through with this spousal swap, Regina's going to find out and raise hell. Worse, the curse will have to take drastic action: it can't allow the pairing of True Loves, even if only for "floor exercises." He locks himself in the bathroom and grasps for plans. When at noon, Mary Margaret raps gently on the bathroom door and informs him of their guests' arrival, he straightens his tie and limps to his doom.

He has two choices: he can refuse the women's proposal (he whimpers at the thought of refusing the opportunity to entertain Belle in his boudoir); if he does that, he'll be pushing Belle away. Or he can go for broke: try to break the curse himself with True Love's kiss. If Belle has fallen in love with Gold, their kiss may be powerful enough.

Aw hell, no one ever accused Rumplestiltskin of pursuing half-measures. When Mary puts forth the proposal, Rumple stands, abandoning his pot roast, holds his hand out to Belle and declares, "Splendid idea. Let's get started."

"But I didn't bring the book—"

"Never mind. David may need it, but I don't."

As he drags her up the stairs, Belle queries, "I'm so encouraged by your enthusiasm for fitness, Mr. Gold. Which exercise would you like to try?"

"Every one of them, love. Every last one of them."

* * *

The phone in the sheriff's office rings off the hook with people with complaints of strange cries coming from the Gold house. Emma tries to call for an ambulance, only to learn Storybrooke doesn't have one (never needed one, since nothing ever changes), so she hops into her squad car and runs out there herself. She's trained in first aid and CPR; she can provide the first response until Whale arrives. She arrives to find a small crowd gathered on the lawn. Hands are wrung and lips are chewed as the townsfolk ask themselves, "What should we do?"

Emma shoves through the crowd. "Go home, everyone. Nothing to see here."

A black BMW pulls up to the curb and the mayor slides out gracefully. In choppy steps she joins the sheriff. "What's going on here, Ms. Swan?"

"Shh." Emma sets a finger to her lips.

Then they can hear them, the cries through an open upstairs window: "Oh, Mr. Gold! Do that again!" "Oh, Belle, yes, gods, yes." "Yes, there! Touch me there! Oh, yes, Mr. Go-o-o-oh,_ Rumple_!"

A golden light emanates from the window, encompasses the house, spreads across the lawn and engulfs the spectators, then flashes across the village and into the woods beyond.

"What the fudge?" Emma mutters. "What is that?"

"He's brought back True Love, that's what that is." The mayor sighs deeply. "I suppose next we'll be subjected to HBO." She slips her hand into Emma's.


End file.
